Belling the Cat, Parents and Children, and the Virtual Graveyard

May 1, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Jezebel is not happy with me this morning. Not at all. But I did level the playing field between her and Fanny.

Cats generally despise collars, and it takes awhile for them to get used to them. Isabel never would wear a collar. She was too good at removing them, and at some point several years ago I gave up. Isabel’s almost 15 years old. She has no interest in actually going outside anyway, so collaring and belling her is sort of pointless. Miz Izz is quite content to lounge in the window sill, enjoying the climate control as she watches the birds and other little critters of nature. She didn’t get to be an old fossil by being stupid. F.B. is the same way- I’ve never tried collaring F.B., and it probably wouldn’t make much sense because she is even less interested in the great outdoors than Miz Izz. F.B. has got to be the most sanguine cat on earth.

I put a collar, tag and bell on Fanny after her brief, unauthorized forays out in the great wide open. Both times I found her large, frightened carcass under the dump truck on the body shop lot. At least with the bell on, I have a chance of hearing Fanny if she tries to sneak out the door.

Jezebel spent a good portion of the evening trying to run away from the bell. Hopefully by tonight she will realize the bell’s attached, and hopefully she will begin to understand the more you move the more noise it makes. I’m hoping she will chill some, and at least partially forgive me. I’d put a collar on her much earlier to get her used to wearing one, but she is so tiny that I have the collar adjusted almost as small as it will go as it is. I thought about those teeny collars for ferrets or the collars for ankle biter dogs, but cat collars are specifically made so if a cat gets tangled and is dangling from something the collar will release before the cat is asphyxiated.

Jezebel doesn’t really try to get outside, but she does torment Fanny every chance she gets. Fanny- all 17# of her- is a wide target. Fanny’s not only slow, she has a bell on to boot. So Jezebel, being young, lithe, fast and silent, can stalk and ambush poor fat Fanny with impunity. Even though Fanny is about 3-4 times as large as Jezebel, Fanny is a poor fighter and has a hard time defending herself, especially when Jezebel wraps herself around Fanny’s neck and starts in with the rabbit kicks.

So I have to try to make it fair. Even though I know, life is not fair, and some things really suck no matter what you do.

Sheena is not much longer for this world, and in some ways it breaks my heart. I scheduled the mobile vet to come to our house tomorrow (if she’s still with us then) to put her down. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, but she’s gotten to the point where she doesn’t want to eat, and isn’t enjoying being a dog anymore. She’s actively dying at this point, and it’s not right to let her suffer.

In some ways I wish we could have done more for her, but she was so ill-treated and in such poor health when we found her, that there’s only so much you can do. She has had numerous issues with mobility from the beginning with the severe HD, but now the mammary growths have come back with a vengeance, and they are everywhere. She is barely able to stand and walk and it’s getting hard for her to breathe. I’m glad I got through to the mobile vet. I wish he could have made it out today but tomorrow’s the soonest I could get. Although Sheena has never had problems with going the vet, let’s face it, she’s not going to have an easy time getting in the car to begin with, and even worse, it’s not easy to load 75# of dead dog back in the car. I took Heidi to our regular vet when we had to let her go, which I preferred in a way, because we love our vet, but it’s not a pleasant 40 mile road trip back home knowing you have a dead dog in the trunk that you’re going to have to both unload and help bury. It was awful enough with Heidi, and she only weighed about 60#.

I can’t help it, and I know it’s macabre, but there’s something about transporting a dead body (even a dog’s) in the trunk that reminds me of the movie Goodfellas.

I really don’t want to do that again.

We had a mobile vet come out when Kayla was dying. I think it’s the same guy who came out with Kayla. I hope so, because he was very understanding. Kayla was a good 90# when she died. I could not lift her by myself. It might sound cruel, but we laid her out on a large blanket before the vet started in with the chemicals, so we could sort of roll her up as if she were in a hammock- so we could carry her outside and lower her into her grave. I know it sucks, but even in the mechanics of death, someone still has to think about the logistics. We will have to do the same thing with Sheena. I can go on and on about how it sucks that we outlive dogs (and Sheena’s probably only about 7 or 8, which really sucks) but you can’t change reality.

I think most people have a sort of love/hate relationship with their parents to some degree, but the older I get the more I appreciate my parents and their work ethic and old-school values. They did the best they could, especially considering Mom is bi-polar, and no matter how much Dad worked, it never seemed like there was enough money to get by. I could barely afford one child, let alone three, and Steve-o (thank God) had very few illnesses or medical issues. I do think it a bit creepy last Sunday, out of the clear blue sky, Mom starts apologizing to me for my trainwreck of a childhood.

What Mom doesn’t get, is that even had I been born into a family with every possible material advantage, it wouldn’t have changed my overall reality much. I might not have been cursed with an uncontrolled, sadistic older sibling. I might have worn better clothes, and might have had new glasses when I needed them. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten rheumatic fever, or maybe I would have gotten a more extensive formal education, but the fact is that in the 1970s, nobody knew how to deal with people who are wired like me. Hyperlexia only occurs in about 1 in 50,000 children, and 75% of those are male. Nobody knew what to do with my precocious reading, and nobody knew that it went along with constant anxiety, poor motor skills, abysmal social aptitude, and weak health.

High fashion, no. High IQ, well, intellect does have its advantages.

Mom did the best she could with what she was given, and no apology was ever necessary. After all, I’m not a correctional institute inmate, I’ve managed to be gainfully employed, and I’m not a serial killer. I went to school with people who fared much worse in the long run than I did, and they were given many advantages I could only have dreamed of.

Perhaps had I been given every “advantage” I might not have had the fortitude to work for anything or appreciate anything. Perhaps scarcity and adversity are good for the soul, even though neither of these are fun to endure.

The older I get, the more I believe the great theologian/philosopher Mick Jagger has it right:

“You can’t always get what you want

You can’t always get what you want

You can try sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need-“

Cats and Dogs, the Natty Impaired, and Physical Fitness

January 25, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I love this chart, because for the most part, it’s true.

Most dogs are not terribly body sensitive. Sheena is a bit head-shy, but I think that’s because she’s deaf, which means she’s highly reliant upon what she sees and she doesn’t want anything to obstruct her vision. Lilo is extremely body sensitive (don’t even try to touch her feet or tail without giving fair warning) for a dog, but she’s an exception rather than a rule. Clara must think she’s a cat, because she adores having her butt scratched as much if not more than a typical cat.

Isabel and Jezebel (the two black cats, and the oldest and youngest) are cling-on cats. They love attention, seek it out, and can’t get enough physical closeness, petting, cuddling, etc. Fanny (the behemoth silver tabby and white) and F.B. (Fluffy Butt, the tortoiseshell Angora) are both more selective about who they want attention from, for how long, and when. They have their moments of wanting attention, but they also have their moments of being downright anti-social. Especially Fanny.

Me (Isabel- right) and Mini-me (Jezebel- left)

Jezebel is not going to be a terribly large cat. Isabel is very small for an adult cat (just over 5#) and Fanny was bigger than her by the time Fanny was three months old. Jezebel is about 18 weeks old at this point and is maybe 2 1/2- 3#. Jezebel will likely grow and fill out a bit after she’s spayed, but I doubt if it will be by much. Isabel’s spayed too. Cats do most of their growing before their adult teeth come in. Jezebel already has her adult incisors and canine teeth (yes, cats are carnivores and therefore they possess four elongated canine teeth, like all other carnivores) and it likely won’t be long before she gets the premolars and molars too. An interesting (nerd alert) aside- a cat is actually more of a true carnivore than a dog, because a cat is an obligatory carnivore that requires meat in their diet to survive, whilst dogs can survive without meat in their diet. Cats cannot manufacture their own taurine, which is an essential amino acid that has to do with vision and regulating heart beat. Dogs (and humans) can manufacture their own taurine, but cats can only get taurine from meat in their diet.

Vegans beware- put your cat on a vegan diet and it will soon go blind and then die- so don’t impose your meatless lifestyle on your cat. Or on me for that matter. I may not need meat to live, but I sure do like it.

F.B. is a beautiful cat, but she despises cameras. I was lucky to get this one.

F.B. is probably the quietest and most unobtrusive of my cats. She likes attention if it’s one-on-one, and she loves to just chill with the other cats. For the most part she sits back and observes, and sleeps.

Fanny was aptly named. That’s what I get for listening to Queen.

Fanny is huge. 17# for a female cat is big. She has big bones, and she has big meat on the big bones also, which is ironic because Isabel and Jezebel- each- eat more than she does. They are tiny and svelte, yet they are eating machines. Fanny is a fussy eater who eats only a very few things, (for instance Fanny refuses Vienna sausages, which the other cats adore) and she slowly and methodically chews each bite. I feel for Fanny and her metabolism. She also has a bit of a jealousy complex and an attitude. She was not at all happy about Jezebel coming in and taking her position as the young petulant indulged one, even though Fanny’s four years old and should be over it by now.

Clara and Lilo have always been close. Sometimes Lilo will get into Clara’s crate with her.

Clara (top) and Lilo (bottom) have been close ever since we got them. Clara had been with us a few months when we got Lilo, and they are only a few months apart in age. Even now that they’re older (Clara’s 10, Lilo’s 9) they still occasionally play tug of war with their toys and play-fight with each other.

They still enjoy this, even though Clara’s bigger and usually wins.

Sheena is well, Sheena. She is her own dog.

Sheena’s part Husky. Sheena has a number of flaws that are consistent with inbreeding- severe hip dysplasia, deafness, gross motor deficits (may or may not be related to HD) and she’s downright goofy. Maybe some of her cognitive deficiencies are related to the fact that she used to live at the Tetanus Farm which was also a puppy mill and (suspected) meth lab. There’s a reason why it’s a bad idea to procreate with first degree relatives, and that applies to dogs as well as humans. But Sheena’s endearing in her own weird way. I have a soft spot for rejects and misfits. That must explain Jerry. A warning to women: if a guy’s 38, straight, and never married, there is a good reason why.

Today begins Jerry’s fitness program. He’s the one who wanted a membership at the Y and actually gave me money to pay for it. This is almost scary in a way. I can’t imagine Jerry in work out clothes, on a treadmill or elliptical, or lifting any sort of weight over 12 ounces.

He will be so disappointed when he discovers the only fluids available at the Y are water, diet soda and fruit juice, and there are no beer holders on the cardio machines. But I will be happy if he at least goes and gives it a try.

On the other hand, I am anxiously looking forward to enjoying the indoor pool, being able to swim laps starting at 5:30 in the morning, and being able to work out on the ellipticals. Swimming and elliptical machines are two modes of exercise that allow me to get the cardio and strength training I need without destroying my joints even more than they are already. The Y also has nice showers, so if I choose to go there to work out before work instead of working out at home, I can actually swim laps, do some cardio, and then shower and go to work from there. Nice.

Hopefully he won’t think this is what I mean by “work out clothes.”

BIG TRUCK, LITTLE PENIS- and if I had a Big Dick, I Wouldn’t Need this Corvette

July 8, 2011Tonya Lanthron 7 Comments

“Now all they need is one (non magnetic, of course) for Corvette owners. Something to the effect of, “If I Had a Big Dick I Wouldn’t Need This Corvette”

These giant magnetic bumper stickers are ideal pranks to pull on truck owners.

View >>

I worked in Chevy dealerships, and very quickly learned to loathe Corvette owners. Truck guys- even the ones with the jacked up and modified monstrosities- were never as obnoxious as Corvette owners. I never encountered a group of automotive enthusiasts who are both cheap and incredibly fussy at the same time. The attitude goes like this, “I want it perfect, I want it NOW, and what’s my discount?”

When I had the authority to set the Corvette owners’ “discount,” it was usually something like list + 50, which means regular retail plus 50% of regular retail. So if list price was $100, I would quote them $150. They got a pretty hefty surcharge for being a royal pompous pain in my ass.

Fussy owners in the automotive fancy are nothing new. I have dealt with truck owners (usually not too terrible) including Land Cruiser enthusiasts, who, while fussy, were some of my favorites to deal with. The major difference between Land Cruiser owners and Corvette owners is that a Land Cruiser owner wants it perfect and wants it NOW, AND is willing to pay for “perfect” and “NOW.” I always loved Land Cruiser owners when I worked in Toyota dealerships. They’re fussy and demanding, yes, but they don’t mind paying for the privilege.

I have to state that yes, there are guys who compensate for their tiny johnsons with excessive horsepower. I’ve seen it, and it isn’t pretty. I really could care less how big your truck is if you’re the poster child for ED,and/or if you are a tightwad, and/or your hair is held on with double faced tape. Show me a guy who drives a Prius and isn’t self conscious about it, and he’s probably quite comfortable in his masculinity. Then again, so are the lesbians who don’t shave their legs and have stopped using soap. They are really comfortable in their truckers’ wallets and their masculinity. That’s a pretty scary crowd too, especially when the technicians make commentary on the pit hair of the one wearing the tank top. I didn’t need to know that “she”? has longer pit hair than all three technicians combined. TMI. Acck. Excessive body hair is bad enough on men. It’s positively revolting on women.

Back to Nature, Hardware Salad, and “Mother” Does Not Start with “S”

May 11, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Kids change a lot in the span of about ten years. Ten year olds and (nearly) twenty year olds don’t really have much in common. Ten years ago, Steve-o was collecting Beanie Babies and Pokemon cards. He slept with a night light until he was twelve because his evil biological grandmother decided he should sleep in a dark basement when he was four years old (that ended her visitations…) and that experience must have done something to traumatize him for a long, long time. Admittedly my evil ex mother-in-law was pretty damned scary, even for adults. I am glad she didn’t have life insurance on me and I didn’t have anything of any real value for her to inherit had I been stupid enough to put her in my will or make her executor of my estate. No wonder her son turned out to be the poster child for OCD and all sorts of other psychological abnormalities. (must…not…offend…Mother…) I think she still has some pretty hefty life insurance policies on my ex and she would score big if he dropped dead. She is probably still sitting on the million or so that she inherited when her various relatives all died- and left all their cash and other assets to her. But enough about my evil ex mother-in-law. She is quite fine where she is, with her Hardware Salad and her measuring cup.

Today Steve-o is collecting Snap-On tools, various performance upgrade parts for his ’68 VW Bug, and empty Jagermeister bottles. I think he has moved on from sleeping with a night light on to sleeping on compliant females, but even to this day he does not like to sleep either alone or in the dark. Creepy. I have to wonder if the old bat tried to make him eat Hardware Salad too.

I know I wanted to get off the subject of my ex mother-in-law, but Hardware Salad deserves a bit of an explanation. I think she was trying to do Waldorf Salad or something of that nature, but Hardware Salad, as near as I can tell, included:

Pretzels

Carrot peelings

Apple pieces, core and seeds included

Red Grapes, including pits (I assume because non-pitted grapes are cheaper)

Assorted Nuts (nut assortments are cheaper than just walnuts)

Loads of greasy mayonnaise (acck, acck, acck, my throat is filling up with snot drainage just thinking about it)

Celery

Sauerkraut? I swear that’s what it was- as a substitute for coconut??? I have no earthly idea.

Marshmallows (????WTF??)

Vinegar

All of the above is set in lime Jell-o, (???) and topped with a tiny teaspoon of watery, off-brand Cool Whip.

Between the grape pits and the pretzels and the occasional apple seed, (not to mention celery and I suspect sauerkraut,) this had to be the most vile dessert ever known to man. Thankfully on the rare occasion she invited you to dinner, she measured out portions with a measuring cup so that she could budget for every penny she spent on food. It was only necessary to gag down precisely 1/2 cup of this stuff for politeness’ sake, and I’m assuming that one teaspoon more of it would induce projectile vomiting. I only gagged it down because I was taught from earliest childhood that when you are a guest at someone’s home you eat what is served, even if it is lacquer thinner with bat turds in it. To do otherwise would be rude, and the Wicked Witch actually thought her Hardware Salad (I forget what she actually called it) was the best dessert ever. I don’t puke easily, but that stuff was nasty. I cringe to this day just thinking about it. It’s sad that after all these years I can still see and actually taste this disaster of a dessert. Acck. I hope poor Steve-o was never subjected to it. The Graham crackers were bad enough. It would have been OK if she’d had enough sense not to give a 20 month old toddler the entire box.

Steve-o looked a lot different before the Puberty ~~Fairy~~ Demon hit too. He had a pleasant soprano voice not unlike my own, complete with Central Ohio Newscaster Accent. On the rare occasions when I would answer his phone (cruel, that, but fun in a mildly malicious sort of way) his buddies would mistake me for him. Oh, the things his buddies would say to me until they realized it was not Steve-o, but Steve-o’s Mom, which brought about a distinct change in their subject matter and tone. Then he woke up one morning six inches taller, with an unfamiliar and ominous sounding baritone voice, a hair style reminiscent of Robert Plant in 1971, 7/8″ earrings, back hair, a libido to rival Casa Nova, and an Attitude from hell. That testosterone is pretty powerful stuff, apparently.

What an odd resemblance. Above is Steve-o in the outhouse, below is Robert Plant sometime in the early 70’s.

There’s a long, long way between pic#1 and pic#2, believe that. He parted with the Robert Plant hairstyle shortly after this pic was taken, although the earrings and the funky beard remain.

He looks better with short hair, and even maybe a little less evil. If he does bother to read my blog, which I doubt, because he would have had a major tizzy fit about the Feces Fountain Incident being recorded for posterity, and for all to see, I’m sure he won’t like me using his Facebook pic. Oh, well. If you post your pic online without explicitly stating that no one else can use it, I guess you’re asking for it. At least I didn’t Photo Shop it first and do something outrageous like put Boy George’s head on his body or something.

I am trying to decide which annual plants to put in my flower beds. I think I will stick with wave petunias- they did well the last couple of times I bothered to plant flowers. The rose bushes have a lot of buds on them and I am looking forward to the roses blooming. That’s as close to nature as I like to get. Flowers- and the Cougar Pool when it gets here. I am looking forward to that.

Welcome to the Private Cougar Pool, Living With Other Humans, and Related Aggravation

May 10, 2011Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

Of course my private cougar pool won’t be this nice, (like I can afford that) but the key word is private, as in capacity: one old cougar, namely me.

I had contemplated actually either getting a summer pool membership or joining the “Y” again, but when I saw the newspaper article saying that more and more people are buying pool memberships and staying home rather than going on vacations, I decided the only redneck stay-cation option for me was one of those small backyard pools. It’s 10′ in diameter and 30″ deep- nothing huge, and sadly, no diving board, but it’s enough for one old cougar in a floatie chair. It would really torque me if I paid big bucks to either join the “Y” or get a pool membership, and then discover the pools to be continually overrun with loud and rowdy rugrats to the point of it being more aggravating to go to the pool than to stay home. The redneck backyard pool was cheaper than a pool membership, there will be no screaming kids, and the most delicious part- it’s private.

I am a bit concerned about Jerry. I’m always concerned about him because of his fragile emotional state, his taste for Natty Lites, and his remarkable ability to screw things up. I’m almost confident it will piss him off to have a pool on the patio- because it’s not specifically for him. There’s no fish in it, and it’s too small to fit a boat in it. Jerry’s interests in water activities end with fishing and boating, so I doubt he will show much interest other than to complain about it. I don’t mind if he wants to use it, (I don’t see it happening,) but I do worry about two things if he does. One, I don’t want him earning his Darwin Award by getting shitfaced and drowning in a 2 ft. pool, (imagine that featured on 1,000 Ways to Die,) and two, I don’t want him destroying it in one way or another- pissing in it, somehow cutting it, draining it or otherwise mutilating it. One of the benefits of having a private pool is being able to keep out things you don’t want in it, such as piss, dirt, grass pieces, bugs, and shitfaced drunks.

My major concern of course is that no matter where I put the pool- whether I decide to put it in the yard, or on the patio which is closer to the electrical plug where I will need to plug in the filter and pump- he’s not going to like it. He will whine about me using the patio even though all that’s on it right now is the grill (can be moved to the other side) and a crappy old table that needs to be thrown away anyway. The patio is probably the best option because it won’t kill his precious grass or take up any dog-shitting area from the girls. But knowing Jerry, if I put it on the patio, he will ask why I didn’t put it in the grass, and if I put it in the grass he will ask why I didn’t put it on the patio. When we first moved in there was an old hot tub on the patio that was about the same size as the pool, so I know it will fit and it should work very well there. There’s also more shade on the patio, so my super-white carcass won’t have to be exposed to too much sun. I’ll still need the Factor 50, but I need that just to step outside in high summer anyway.

Sometimes it is better to ask forgiveness than to beg for permission. This is one of those times. The pool’s not moving once it’s filled up. He will be in Lancaster this weekend, so if the pool arrives on time, this should be perfect timing for me to power-clean the patio, and get my redneck getaway underway.

Part of the problem of communal living is that other people do gross things that they don’t think are gross, but that in reality, are positively disgusting. I gave up on bar soap many years ago for this reason, (few things are nastier than bathing with other people’s stray body hair) and that is a major advantage of body wash and/or liquid hand soap. No one else has been fingering the body wash or the liquid hand soap, and there are no curlies in it. Jerry can leave as many curlies as he wants hopelessly embedded in the surface of the soap bar, because it’s his soap. I’m not using it, so it’s OK!

Maybe the thing with stray human hair bothers me because I am not a big fan of excessive body hair to begin with, and there’s just something gross about the thought of washing with someone else’s pubes. It’s just counterintuitive. I’ve washed, but with something that used to be attached to someone’s balls. Why bother washing if you’re just washing in used ball hair? Then again, I could be becoming my mother and getting her OCD, but I doubt it, because OCDers can not stand to be around dogs because of the risk of getting dog hair on them. I think Mom went nuts with the lint-grabber for an hour after spending less than five minutes with Sheena. Granted, Sheena’s white hair against a background of black pants is not a flattering look. Even so, dog hair doesn’t really phase me that much. Dogs come with hair, and that’s just part of the reality. It’s wicked to get dog hair out of the car, off my clothes and worst of all off the floor- my adventures with poorly sucking vacuum cleaners are both legendary and frequent, but compared with the aggravation and mess of living with fellow humans, dog hair is a really minor issue.

Speaking of vacuum cleaners, Jerry thought he got a really good one when he got an ancient, but barely used, Hoover upright at an estate sale. It works great- when it works- but the last time I tried to vacuum with it I ended up breaking two belts and pissing myself off enough to go back to using the other one which by some miracle has lasted two and a half years. I have to constantly pull it apart and unclog it, but I think that’s going to happen regardless of what kind of vacuum cleaner I try.

The vacuum cleaner is the only thing I can think of that sucks when it doesn’t suck.

I can also see myself if I live to be old- surrounded by dogs and cats. Aunt Frances didn’t care much for people either, (except for maybe Jimmy Swaggart,) but she had thirty-odd cats in and out of her house at any given time. I don’t think she liked dogs either, so for her it was just cats until she broke her hip and ended up in the nursing home. That was actually sad, because then all she had to look forward to was Jimmy Swaggart.

I think I’d much rather have had the cats.

elysianhunter’s “Inferno” (Hell as I See It) and Its Denizens, Swamp Life, and I Need a Hobby

May 4, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I believe in a literal hell. Dante did too, although he was a far better writer than I, and his perspective on hell is distinctively colored by Roman Catholic traditions and the political intrigues of his day. The French have a saying: “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.” The literal English translation is, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” The Cliff’s Notes English translation is a simple acronym: SSDD. (Same Shit, Different Day.) It can be not only good satire to envision the populace of hell from time to time, it can also prove cathartic. The thought that greater punishment awaits those who offend me might keep me from throttling someone, who knows?

I’m going to start off my virtual tour of hell with Beezelbub himself, even though Ol’ Splitfoot is on a brief hiatus from life in hell, and is currently wreaking nine kinds of havoc here on earth:

As you can see, right now, Lucifer has been loosed upon the earth to deceive the masses and to gather up his minions. He is acting swiftly, and with a vengeance, because his time is short. I hope his time in office is very short. My countdown to January 20, 2013 reads 626 days, 7 hours and 53 minutes as of the minute I am typing this.

Fannyzilla, at the Gates of Hell, says: “Yoose is Skrewed! Abandonn Yer Chezebooger! Yoose No Can Has Chezebooger No Mo!”

The first level of hell belongs to People Who Drive Like Assholes.

You know them. We have all been behind the idiot who doesn’t realize he is tooling all over creation with only one (barely) working tail light. That’s bad enough, but if you rear-end the prick, the cop is going to cite you. I’ve had more than a few ABS checks (believe me, you will know it when you lock up your brakes and engage the ABS system) because some people are too stupid to occasionally check their bulbs. Included in this category also is the idiot who insists in staying in your blind spot and not letting you over, the rapper whose car vibrates his car, your car and the pavement at every stop light while he’s treating everyone in half the county to a hideous diatribe about cop killing and sister-rape, and the bimbo who can’t talk on the phone and operate her turn signal at the same time.

The first level people will get to spend eternity forced to sit in a Dr.s’ office waiting room whilst being bombarded with whatever swill is on daytime network TV,i.e., Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer, Judge du Jour, and you will be surrounded by sickies who are snotting and sneezing all over you. The worst part is, just like in Dr.s’ offices here on earth, you will wait and wait and wait and you will never be called in.

Level Two is reserved for people who fail to control their heathen rugrats in Target, Wal Mart, Kroger’s or any other public emporium where everyone must go at some point to buy survival items (such as food, hair color and toilet paper) that can’t generally be purchased online.

The punishment will fit the crime. Level Two residents will be condemned to walk the aisles of Target for eternity, surrounded by Queen Banchee (the memorable five year old who once stood in the end of the shopping cart screaming her lungs out all over Target while her Mom just kept plodding along in an apparent Valium-induced catatonic haze) and her minions as they scream, writhe on the floor, run all over the store, throw pointy things, and generally make you forget why you went to Target in the first place. You are doomed to wander the Target store, with these wretched urchins as your constant companions, and you never will remember that you went to Target in the first place because you were out of toilet paper.

Level Three is for corrupt politicians and bold face liars, such as those who gravitate toward pandering careers in media.

I won’t just go ahead and just say “Democrats” because there might be one or two good ones out there, and there may be a GOP’er or two that lands on the shady side. I mean corrupt politicians on the scale of a Bill Clinton- a guy who seriously questions things like the meaning of the word “is,” and who answers to a moral dilemma by stating that oral sex isn’t really sex. I also mean media personalities who can flat out lie to the American people and spin the truth a 180- with a straight face. Level Three residents will be doomed to an eternity of living in a giant cat box. Imagine if you were about the same size as a Barbie doll and you were forced to stay in the cat box forever, even when the cat, who is three times your size, drops in to drop a deuce. On your head. And the cat “offerings” are also your dinner. That would be Level Three. In life you fed people shit and expected them to eat it and like it. Now it’s your turn. Bon Appetit!

The Fourth Level (and this is the final level in my version of hell, because you can’t get much worse than living in a cat box and eating cat shit for eternity) is reserved for the most vile of them all. Child molesters, rapists and murderers end up here.

Fourth Level scumbags will receive kerosene enemas 24-7, with eternally burning kerosene. While the enemas are taking place, all will be forced to listen to the song “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” by Culture Club, and watch the accompanying video. All Boy George, all the time.

Yes, for the record, I would like to hurt him. I’d kick him in the crotch, but I doubt if there’s anything there.

Life here in the Central Ohio swamp would be a bit nicer if we actually did see the sun once in awhile (this pic was taken last year) but the torrential rains (yes, I know May is still Monsoon season) this year are a bit much. Poor Sheena had to drop a deuce in a driving downpour this morning. They have the “Potty Patch” for ankle biters so they can do the deed in the house, but that’s not practical for bigger dogs who put off gallons of liquid waste and solid wastes are measured in “shovelfuls.” For reference: a dog will eliminate ten percent of his/her body weight per day. A 50# dog will leave 5# of waste per day. Given that my dogs are 55#, 65# and 65#, that’s 18 1/2# of dog waste generated by my girls every day. They are not going to use the inside of the house as their toilet. Short of them actually using the toilet and flushing, I can’t think of any containment device that can deal with that volume of toxic waste.

Big dogs need a lean-to relief station- outside, sort of like the beer tent at a street festival, only the dogs would be more discreet in relieving themselves. This way they’re still outside but they don’t have to stand and squat in a downpour. I have to contemplate this one. Everyone needs a hobby. Keeping my dogs dry while they pinch a loaf would be a very good thing.

The Squattin’ Station. For big dogs, so they can drop their loads outside and still stay dry. The only thing is that in Central Ohio you would need to be sure to anchor it securely otherwise the wind will pick it up and drop it off in the next county.

Conspiracy Theories, Dead Terrorists, and Men Who Wear Pants Pulled Up to the Waist

May 3, 2011Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I hope Osama is dead. I don’t care who killed him, (though I must admit, as far as methods go, you can’t beat assassination by Navy SEALs, if that’s what really happened,) or even if he choked to death on a hot dog (preferably a pork hot dog, if the true mode of death was asphyxiation by wiener.) If he is indeed, dead, the world has been rid of someone almost as twisted and evil as Hitler. Most people, excepting radical Muslims, regardless of their political preferences, are probably glad to hear this dude is taking the Dirt Nap- or in his case, Swimming With the Fishes. I just have a lingering twinge of doubt in the back of my mind regarding: a.) did Obama have anything to do with the death of Osama?, and b.) whether or not Osama is really, truly dead.

The timing of the Osama killing couldn’t be better for Obama. It’s taken the attention away from the whole birth certificate fiasco (don’t know what to believe on that one either, but I seriously doubt Obama was born anywhere near Hawaii – or any other US state,) and from gasoline prices killing the economy- again.

I smell price fixing, collusion, and just plain boldface lies- and at the center of it? Obama.

Osama may have already been dead for years- or he may have dropped dead of some natural cause, and Obama’s been saving up the Osama Assassination Event to build up his street cred at a particularly strategic hour. I can’t think of a better strategic hour than right now. With the 2012 election coming up and his poll numbers in the crapper, he needs something to get the American people’s minds off of the very real possibility that not only do we have a sitting President who is ineligible to hold the office – and is crazy enough to run again, he could also use something to distract Joe Sixpack from the fact that it’s going to cost him half the national debt to fill up his F-150. The economy is going straight down the toilet while Obama and his pet contributors are on the take, and it appears that’s exactly how he planned it. What better than a dead terrorist as a distraction- better yet, the Grand Pappy terrorist of them all? It just smells very fishy- and way too expedient- to me.

The other thing I don’t get is why do we as Americans give a rat’s ass if Osama gets a proper Muslim burial? Do terrorists assure that all the Christians they kill get appropriate Christian burial rites? Do they have priests on the ready to give last rites to Catholics who die at terrorists’ hands? And what about Jews? Jews have their burial rules too, and I bet terrorists really don’t observe those either. I don’t think it was the US Navy’s responsibility to do anything other than make sure he’s dead and put the body put somewhere where it wouldn’t stink and draw flies.

Burial at sea, while hygienic (granted-it won’t stink and draw flies six fathoms beneath the sea,) and a perfect way to maintain an unmarked grave, poses too many credibility questions. How do we know they didn’t wrap up a couple of bags of cow manure in a white sheet and toss them over the edge and just say it was Osama? I think they should have put him in the freezer and sent his carcass to a taxidermist so he could be mounted and displayed, so people could see for themselves that he’s really dead.

Admittedly, today I’ve gone from my normal baseline pragmatism right into the heart of cynicism, but who can blame me? I don’t trust Obama any further than I could throw him. I don’t trust the media, who is in cahoots with him. I also don’t trust the string-pullers who are price-gouging and profiteering and doing their damnedest to engineer another economic crisis. All of these events don’t make me want to re-elect Obama. They make me wish Congress would have the stones to impeach him now, and run him and his cronies out on a rail.

Anyway, I shouldn’t get too hung up on things I can’t change. I have to deal with them, and while I still have the freedom to comment on them as I see them, I’m going to.

Today I came across a man after my own heart. I love this guy. His commentary on the abysmal condition of “customer service” in retail is a bit cheeky, but mostly true. I know I’m getting old. I bemoan the extinction of the Man Who Wears His Pants Pulled Up to the Waist with No Visible Underwear or Butt Crack.

Pull up your damned pants! Maybe I’m just old, but there’s no mystique or attraction to be found in some dude’s hairy, sweaty butt crack, or in getting a visual of his boxers or whitey-tighties. I want to see dudes with their pants at the waist.

Activities for Introverts, Strange Phrases, Aging as it Relates to Discretion

April 13, 2011Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

There’s nothing like the Nintendo DS (I have the “lite” version, not the funky 3D one- and I’d love to get the Hello Kitty skin, but I do have the full HK case, so why do that?) for geeks. You don’t have to be a geek to appreciate the DS, but I am a big fan of word games and various solitaires, and as far as hand-held games are, it’s probably the best one for that. I bought a DS so I would have something to occupy myself with when I was recovering from my hysterectomy. It was well worth it. The 3D version, which just came out last month, would be cool for action games- but I generally don’t play action games. The only action games I have are “Jackass” and “Sims”. I haven’t gotten past the first level on Jackass, and I haven’t played with the “Sims” game much yet. Most of the time I’m either playing Scrabble or Freecell (or Tuxedo or Sea Towers, on the Solitaire Overload package) or Bookworm, or the Crosswords DS game.

This is gaming excitement for this old cougar. Gratuitous use of the DS also keeps me from throttling people when I am forced to wait. It’s that whole Type A personality mentality that doesn’t like to waste time- unless of course I’m occupying my mind with something else. Waiting in the Dr.’s office, or waiting for car repair, or anything else I have to wait on gets my nervous tizziness going on, and it doesn’t help that most public waiting areas subject you to either 1. bad pop music, 2. CNN or other depressing, extreme left-wing biased “news” broadcasts that insist Obama is the greatest President since Lincoln (gag), or 3. Oprah/Jerry Springer/Montel/Judge Whoever, etc., which is enough to make me want to hurl. If I’m playing a game I’m at least a bit distracted from being irritated and kept from excessive clock-watching. I do have Scrabble on my phone, but the DS version is a lot easier to maneuver.

If I do have to watch one of those made for TV hokey small-claims court programs, why not bring back the People’s Court with Judge Wapner? Unless of course, Judge Wapner is dead. As of today, or the latest info I can find, Judge Wapner is still alive, but he’s 91, so he’s probably not much for making a comeback into the courtroom. I like to watch the exciting courtroom stuff like they show on TruTV, where the victim’s entire family beats the hell out of a murderer in the courtroom or something cool like that. I just can’t get riled up about some jackoff leaving skid marks in someone’s grass, or someone wanting reimbursed for her pain and suffering over a crappy hair do, and other petty stuff like that. If I’m going to be pissed off enough to take someone to court it better be worth my time and aggravation.

I understand that 99% of the rest of the world is not wired like me at all, so I’m the one who has to adjust. I can’t expect the rest of the world to cater to my preferences, unless of course I can pay for that privilege. The ability to pay for solitude and to require others to come to me for necessary services could be a mixed blessing too. Howard Hughes was able to pay for the amount of isolation and catering he wanted, and look how he ended up- emaciated, naked, hooked on drugs and over all a pathetic mess. The reality is that many introverted people, if given enough money (and a bad enough case of OCD, which oddly, is one disorder common to introverted people that I have remained free of) could end up exactly like Howard Hughes. Whether I like it or not, I have to interact with other humans face to face. I am generally not paranoid about dirt or germs or weird stuff like that. I’m just not terribly social unless it is on my terms, and with the very few people that I actually enjoy socializing with. Most of the time I’d rather not talk to or interact with anyone, but there are things everyone has to do that they don’t always want to do.

I like shoes too much to resort to wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet.

I’ve noticed the older I get the more I get like my Grandma (Mom’s mother, who died back in 1990 at the somewhat untimely age of 74) and my Great-Grandma (her mother, who died in 1992 at the age of 94.) They were at least in appearances, classy old ladies. They both knew how to dress. When Grandma died she had over 500 pairs of shoes, all size 8 1/2 AAA. Mom wears the same bizarre size, so she inherited a nice collection. These weren’t cheap shoes either. They were all quality, good leather shoes- brands like Florsheim, Hush Puppies, Connie, Reebok, and her personal favorite, Naturalizer. I try to buy my shoes on clearance, because I am cheap, but I can’t abide cheap shoes. I will spend money on shoes, but I will go to the thrift store and the Target clearance rack to buy clothes. I buy along the same lines as Grandma did- well made leather shoes, only I need a 7B. I didn’t inherit Mom and Grandma’s narrow feet. Steve-o did though. Very few dudes wear a size 13A. His feet remind me of giant bird claws. Creepy.

Anyway, Grandma was the type of person who spoke her mind even if it was politically incorrect or just downright embarrassing. I will never forget the time I took Grandma and Great-Grandma to K-Mart together. Neither of them ever learned to drive which I thought was a bit odd, but I didn’t mind taking them places.

Grandma had worked as a lingerie buyer for a large department store for many years. When I was 13 (and already a 36C) Grandma warned me how important it was for me to wear a good quality support bra, otherwise I would be looking like the native women on National Geographic before I turned 30. Gravity has taken its toll (I’m 42 after all,) but the puppies would likely be a lot further south today had I gone braless like a lot of my friends used to do. Grandma knew all the ins and outs of lingerie and fitting foundation garments. She also knew the good stuff from the cheap stuff.

When we walked into K-Mart there was an absolutely horrible hot pink, red and black nightie type thing on the display mannequin. There were bright red hands stitched to the chest area of the nightie thing, as if some ethereal form were copping a feel of the mannequin’s puppies. Grandma simply had to comment.

“You’d have to be a whore to wear something like that!”

Then Great-Grandma (not to be out done) spotted one of the Behemoth Women Wearing Spandex which are unfortunately (pun intended) wide spread in the entire Central Ohio vicinity. There’s a reason why K-Mart sells size 20 women’s underwear, which could also double as a front end cover for Jerry’s Tacoma. Great-Grandma had to comment on her shocking sight of the day too.

“Look at the big ass on that!”

Both of them were laughing- loudly- all the way through the store, and I have to admit I was too, because their observations were spot-on.

I think as people age the “traffic cop” function of the frontal lobe of the brain gets a bit tired out. We stop censoring everything and just say it like it is. In some ways I think that can be a good thing. I even see Mom doing this to some degree, which is shocking, because she has always been so straight laced and prudy. When we were kids she thought “fart” was a cuss word, and we weren’t allowed to say “fart.” We had to say, “passed gas,” “let a stinker,” or “went toot.” Now she is a hard-core road rager. She flips people off and calls them stupid assholes out the window, and worse.

Maybe that’s why Grandma and Great-Grandma never drove. Mom’s a terrible driver. She has also been known to cuss out cops, which is not a very wise thing to do. If ever there were a time for the frontal lobe of one’s brain to engage, it’s when talking to a cop. I find the phrase, “Yes, sir, Officer,” to be a very appropriate one. “F*** off and die,” is not a cop-friendly phrase. Neither is, “Don’t you have better things to do than to torment old bitties?” I agree that sometimes cops do lie in wait for the occasional speeder, but the little old bitty doing 95 in a 25 (in a Ford LTD- granted it did have a 351 Windsor, but still,) is a hazard to the public. She’s lucky to have only gotten a speeding ticket and not a conviction for reckless op. That’s why Dad won’t let her have another V8. I’ve been in the car with Mom. I know how she drives. I side with the cop.

I should get Mom this t-shirt. Maybe it will help if she’s wearing it the next time she gets busted.

Jesus Loves All the Little A-Holes, Friends are Forgiven, and Serenity is an Incontinence Pad

April 12, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I have absolutely no illusions concerning my own lack of patience when people act stupid. I do not suffer fools gladly, if ever, except for maybe trying to keep from throttling them by making fun of them. I’m not trying to be blasphemous when I say Jesus loves the people we (rightfully or wrongfully) assume to be assholes. I’m just saying that He has a whole lot more patience than I ever could have. He is God, I’m not, and that is a very fortunate thing for both the chronically and situationally stupid.

Speaking of the situationally stupid, Jerry enjoyed his Monday night beer and bitch session with Bob last night. I’ve found that it’s a lot easier for me to endure those bitch sessions if I take the DS and play Freecell or Bookworm or Scrabble while Jerry whines and cries to Bob about how stupid his illustrious co-workers are. I hope Bob finds it amusing. I think he and Debbie are just happy to have company- even if said company does whine and cry, fill up the ashtrays, piss on the toilet seat, and leave empty beer cans. It must suck to be old if that’s the best kind of company you get. Jerry’s B&B sessions at Bob’s (for me at least) are usually an hour and a half of listening to the pot call the kettle black. It gets more outrageous and whiny and paranoid the drunker he gets. It’s painful to observe. I am one of those annoying people who always has to be doing something- call it a nervous habit. I like to watch TV and read at the same time, or troll on-line and watch TV, or play the DS while I’m watching TV. Maybe I’m just hard wired to multitask all the time.

It’s been way too long since I’ve had an evening of intelligent conversation, one on one with a friend. It’s been so long that said conversation included a drink or two and not a few chain-smoked cigarettes. I don’t regret for one moment being set free of the cigarette vice – which I will always attribute to the grace of God- but for a time reference only, it’s been eight and a half years since I’ve lit one up and even longer since I had an evening out somewhere nice with a friend. I don’t think I would know how to behave. Jerry’s idea of “dinner out” is either Waffle House or the pizza joint (one of the few places where he doesn’t bitch) or sending me to the Chinese joint for takeout. While the pizza joint is good, and I do adore good Chinese food, it would be fun to actually dress nice and go somewhere nice and be treated like a lady for a change. However, I am sure that those in hell might welcome a snowball fight, and I’m not seeing that happening anytime soon either.

Some women are treated to candlelight dinners and intelligent conversation from time to time. I am treated to Captain Wastoid passed out on the bathroom floor, whitey-tighties hanging from the bed post (??? ’cause I was sober and I know I didn’t bother to take them off of him) and if it’s a really special occasion, really bad country music blaring from the stereo just to complete the ambience. I was lucky last night to be spared the country music, but he managed to scare the living daylights out of Clara, which really pissed me off.

Clara has some issues in her history, one of which is that somewhere in her past- before she was rescued and came to us- she was beaten. When we got her she was wary of almost all humans. She preferred Kayla’s company to anyone’s and she felt safer with other dogs. She was a bit better with women than men, and I slowly gained her trust. Over time she has gotten to where she will tolerate certain men- generally she is good with Jerry, but she can’t stand to be around him when he’s drunk. Last night he found a leather whip he had in the closet (Lord only knows why he has a leather whip, but he does.) If he had actually used it on any of the dogs or even threatened to I would most assuredly beat the living hell out of him or at the very least zapped his ass with the stun gun, and I would do either of those things to anyone who would even remotely think about using a whip on my dogs. Especially Clara. But all she had to do was see him take the whip out of the closet and she freaked out. Clara reads people better than people read people. She knew he was drunk, and she knows he’s an asshole when he’s drunk. Even though he did not threaten her with the whip ,(I would have had to severely mess his daytime up had he made that bad a choice) all she had to see was him, drunk, and a whip, and that did it for her. I am going to make it a point to hide the whip in the same place I hide the stun gun so he can’t find either one when he’s wasted.

Poor Clara made a beeline for the bathtub (?certainly not her favorite place) and was cowering behind the bath curtain. When Jerry staggered back to his room and flopped on his bed, I ended up convincing Clara to go to my room, where she promptly curled up all the way under the bed where no one can reach her. She stayed there for an hour or two, until Captain Wastoid was passed out. Then she got up on the bed with me, and was my personal 65# cling-on the rest of the night. Clara is one of those rare and special dogs who respond to the most subtle commands and are (for good or ill) exquisitely tuned to their surroundings. This is why police and military love the Malinois breed. Those dogs can read your mind, they are devoted to their handlers, and they don’t miss anything. Clara seldom requires correction, and it is not necessary to raise one’s voice with her. All it takes is a quiet “no” or a disapproving glance for me to correct her.

I will say Clara seemed none the worse for wear this morning, but I don’t like anyone upsetting her. She is a good dog, and doesn’t deserve to have to put up with stupid shit.

I shouldn’t find humor in bladder control products, especially as I am at risk for accidents myself, should I sneeze or cough or laugh the wrong way. I should get some of these for Jerry, but he doesn’t normally just piss his pants, even if he’s really shitfaced. He just pisses in unorthodox places such as closets, floors or drawers. I just get to find the dampened whitey-tighties as a reminder the following morning.

Oh, for an evening in the company of adults. I’ve done my time with those of the diaper set.

All of us are examples. Some of us are bad ones.

Squirrels in the Family Tree, the Cat Lady, and Everyone Has an Uncle Bob

February 18, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Every family has its skeletons in the closet. This is an encouragement to me, knowing I have ancestors who were crazier than I am. Then again, heredity explains a lot.

Part of the fun in genealogy research is finding all the squirrels in the family tree, and I’m discovering I have more than my fair share in mine. It’s been a bit of an adventure finding out which family members had issues with mental illness and to what degree. Let’s see, for starters, Mom is bi-polar. Her biological father was certifiably crazy- most likely he was bi-polar (with an emphasis on bizarre manic episodes) also as well as being an incorrigible alcoholic. He died at age 53 of cirrhosis of the liver. Thankfully Mom never had a taste for liquor. Mom didn’t need alcohol to go off in a frenzy. Her manic episodes were bad enough without it.

Mom and her biological father are not the only ones by a long shot though. One of my great-uncles was institutionalized most of his adult life, after he had a severe head injury while working for the railroad. It was really quite tragic. Oddly enough on his death certificate the cause of death was listed as pneumonia resulting from “Huntington’s Chorea,” or Huntington’s Disease, which is (99% of the time) a genetic disease. In almost all instances, one of your parents has to have it in order for you to get it. He was 46 when he died, but neither of his parents had it. However, the tremors, violent outbursts and general insanity this poor guy suffered from was more than likely connected with brain damage. I would be curious to find out, but I would guess that rather than Huntington’s Disease, he probably had damage to the frontal lobe of his brain. That wasn’t inherited- which is sort of a relief, but still sad.

Alcoholism is a big character flaw on both sides of my family. My great-grandfather and another great uncle were notorious for boozing. Being a drunk isn’t necessarily what I would call mental illness, but way too many drunks drink to drown their depression and despair. I was enough of a binge drinker in my youth, but thank God the whole binge drinking thing lost its charm for me. Dad for all practical purposes is a tee-totaler (he likes a very occasional beer) and Mom is a complete tee-totaler, so we never really had to deal with alcohol at home except when my oldest sister came home wasted from time to time in high school. I was smart enough to crash where I partied when I got wasted. She is still somewhat of a casual drinker but not a real boozehound. Of course Mom thinks drinking a social beer now and then will turn you into a lush, but it really depends on the person. If you’re drinking every night or downright getting stupid with the binge drinking then you need to evaluate your relationship with booze. I don’t have much use for it other than a very occasional glass of wine.

Then there are the relatives you just don’t want to claim because their behavior makes you really wonder how much DNA you share with them. I had some really interesting ones. Aunt Frances, for instance, was a 400# cat lady with a deep disdain for all things foreign (especially my old Subaru,) a loathing of ear piercings and earrings (thankfully she never got to see Steve-0’s 7/8 gauged earrings, or the SS helmet for that matter) and a general distrust of females who insist upon wearing makeup. I have nothing against cats- I have three of them- but having thirty five of them wandering in and out of your house, eating you out of house and home and breeding uncontrollably is not the proper way to keep cats. Sending half of your Social Security checks to Jimmy Swaggart probably wasn’t the best decision either, but she just couldn’t resist the televangelists when they appealed for cash.

Uncle Jack was actually one of my great-uncles. He was a tiny dude, about 5’5″ and slightly built. He had a withered hand, a taste for whiskey and he chain smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. Every time I saw him, he always seemed to be either getting ready to go to jail for something or had just got out of jail for something. He had some really hideous tattoos, and used language that would make a trucker blush.

I had twin great-aunts- Glenna and Gwendolyn. I don’t know for sure if they were identical twins or not, but they had the identical horrible bleach-blonde hair do. I remember when Great-Grandma died (their mother) they got in a fist fight over her stuff, none of it worth a whole lot. Gwendolyn was married to Uncle Bob- the one with the nudie pics all over his garage- who gave my sister a Budweiser when she was six or seven, and who would look up girls’ dresses if he got the chance. They had a miniature poodle named Jacques who liked to hump people’s legs and piss on everyone’s hub caps. Jacques went to the groomer, had his nails painted blue, and always smelled like girly perfume. Dad always wondered why anyone would prissify a male dog like that, but they were kind of strange.

Everyone has an Uncle Bob- the family pervert. Thankfully I only got to experience Uncle Bob once a year or less (Dad didn’t want us kids to be around alcohol, especially after the Budweiser Incident) but that was enough. Everyone wondered why I would not run up and give him a hug. First of all I am not a hugger by nature. I am very selective about who I want to hug even today. As a child I tried to avoid physical contact as much as possible. So be happy with a handshake- and I was that way with most people I encountered. I’m not being rude, but I don’t want you looking up my dress or trying to slip me the tongue. Something about the nudies on the garage walls creeped me out.

This is NOT the Subaru DL I had, but it is the same model. This one is a 1978, mine was a ’79. Mine was also red -or at least it was painted red at the factory, before it oxidized, rusted, and ended up covered in fiberglass body filler, primer, duct tape and bumper stickers. Either not many of them were built, or they just couldn’t handle Rust Belt winters. It took a lot of duct tape to hold those marker lights in the fenders.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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